What Must Be Done
by the belletrist
Summary: The Dark Knight makes a graveside visit


I do NOT hold the copyright to Batman or any of the character. This story is for fun, NOT profit.  
  
It is my first fanfic written several years ago. Be gentle.  
  
WHAT MUST BE DONE By the Belletrist  
  
The Headstone was large and beautifully carved. The script was darkened black. There were only the names and dates of birth and death. One man; one woman. Simple. Stark. As was death itself.  
  
A man stood staring down at the graves. He was large yet lean. Well dressed. Grief was stamped plainly on his stark features. His entire body was taut with the effort to control his sorrow. Moisture glistened in his eyes. A sigh escaped. When he spoke his deep voice was harsh with reticent emotion.  
  
"Every minute of every day. Never do you leave my thoughts. Your deaths direct my every action. I still see it. The bullets penetrating your bodies. Life draining from you. Leaving me alone." A faint smile briefly touched his lips.  
  
"I am not sure Alfred approves of the way I deal with my grief. Or what it has led me to become. Yet I am thankful for his unwavering loyalty. I could not do what I must without his help.  
  
Now I have even more help. Whether I wish it or not. I dislike the idea of a child (no matter how much he protests the label) no matter how capable, being involved in the work I do. He will not be dissuaded. Alfred, naturally, disapproves.  
  
It was his idea I come. 'Talk of the commonplace,' he says. What in my life is commonplace? I suppose it depends upon your definition of commonplace. The charade of playboy? The nightly hunts? The never-ending battle to abolish evil and the guilt? To me these are every day events. I no longer think about them. They are now simply reflex actions, much like breathing.  
  
Still there are times when I hate the lies. Despise the evil that I must surround myself with. I long to be normal. Whatever that is. Unfortunately I am not capable of 'normal' anymore. And now I am going to take normalcy away from a child.  
  
He claims his life was never 'normal' anyway. Even Alfred agreed he would not give up the path that he has chosen for himself. He claims I should understand. I do. That is the problem.  
  
I understand. I know exactly what he is going to be forced to give up. I tell him and he replies that he understands. In my heart I know he does not. Yet, I cannot force him. Everyone has to make his or her own choices.  
  
I wish you both were here. Silly, is it not? If you were here there would be no need for this conversation. Would there? I wonder. Though wondering does no good. You are dead and I am what I have become.  
  
Would you believe I find it hard to sleep some nights? I am speaking of those nights I actually attempt sleep.  
  
Do you approve of what my life has become? I worry about that. Far more than even Alfred suspects. Sometimes I believe people when they tell me you would be ashamed of me. Even though I know they are only seeing the image I choose to put forth. I pray you understand the reasons I do what I do. And the reasons why I feel I must.  
  
If you do not, I can only pray you will forgive me. Alfred once stated that you would feel responsible. Please. Do not. If you must blame someone blame those who ended your lives and those of their ilk. Or blame me. I chose to become what I am.  
  
I combat my grief in a very real sense. Every time I fight a delegate of depravity. You were gunned down by evil. You were innocent. More so than most. Innocence must be protected. I can do that better than most. I must. I could not protect you. I must protect those I can. I cannot fail again. I must not.  
  
I am sorry. I sometimes rant. Dick claims that intensity is why he must join me in my fight. I do not think he fully comprehends the burden of grief I still carry. No one knows the extent to which it consumes me."  
  
The man's arms were now folded across the tombstone. His head rested heavily on his arms. With a stifled sob he straightened. Placing two blood red roses on the graves he stared at them for a moment that lasted for eternity.  
  
"Please forgive me. For not being able to protect you. For what your deaths have led me to become. I can do nothing else."  
  
Tears steamed down the grief stained face. He did not brush them away as he slowly turned and walked away. Body erect, head held high.  
  
Two roses dark as blood lay on the graves. The only color in a place robbed by death. 


End file.
